Lady of the Woods
by Invisible Ranger
Summary: What if Gaston lived in a world without Belle? What if the Beast character were a woman? An AU "Beauty and the Beast" story based in part on early French and Louisianan history.
1. Sable's Reprieve

"Of the first women who came to New Orleans, none of their names are known to us."

( I was inspired to write this story not only because of my love for _Beauty and the Beast_, but also for American history. I was reading an article about women in early Louisiana and this quote jumped out at me; a story was born! The time frame is very roughly 1750. New Orleans was first chartered in 1721. This is strictly an AU story in which Belle and the Beast/Prince do not exist, but some of the characters do. I like to see it as an alternate version of the _Beauty and the Beast _story. _Laissez le bon temps rouler! _Many, many thanks to TrudiRose for beta-reading and for inspiring me to write again.) 

**Chapter 1: Prologue (Sable's Reprieve) **

_"Where you going, pretty thing?" _

_ I want that money. I beat you, fair and square. So hand it over. _

_ "What if I say no?" _

_ Then I'll beat you again. _

_ "Have it your way." _

_ "Get her!" _

She was torn awake again in a sudden jolt. Cold sweat coursed down her brow. Every night she relived her terrible memories, and every night she heard their taunting voices. Five of them against one of her. Two of those voices would never speak again.

_Keep telling yourself you didn't kill them with your bare hands. Then maybe you'll believe it. _

Now, only the hangman waited for her.

Her familiar, time-worn garments were gone; they had been replaced with an over-large grain sack with holes hastily cut for the head and arms. She'd never realized how soft buckskin was until now.

Worse, there was nothing for her face. Gingerly she touched it again and winced. With no mirror around, she could only guess at the severity of the injuries. What little water they had given her had gone to clean the wounds as best she could. Her ribs and shoulders were afire with pain.

_Maman would know what to do. Cut this flower, mix with a little mud and some of that sap, and you'll be better, cherie. Even Bertrand, old Berti with his rough hands… _

But _Maman _was gone. For all she knew, Bertrand was too.

She would not let herself cry. All the tears had fallen for _Maman, _into the bayou with the mud and the reeds.

Sleep did not come, and her thoughts wandered like fireflies.

An escape would be risky and foolhardy. The first day, ignoring the pain, she had tried the lock, the bars at the narrow window, even the ground itself. Hopeless. She had nothing save for her aching hands and a wooden bowl, and an armed sentry waited outside. If she had by some miracle escaped the brig, she was in the middle of the barracks. In her injured state she was no match for even two or three men.

A hungry mosquito landed on her neck and she promptly swatted it. Even here in the witching hour she was soaked with sweat. The mosquitoes were simply ruthless. No time of year in New France was forgiving, but midsummer was intolerable at best.

This had always been her home, the place some privateer had named _Nouvelle-Orleans. _Judging by what _Maman_ had told her of the mother country, the name was a cruel joke. This place was a rude cluster of shanties huddled along the sluggish bayou, constantly at war with the mosquitoes, gators, hurricanes, and endless assortment of diseases. Only the garrison itself seemed to suggest it was anything more than a figment of the imagination. The Ursuline nuns had brought proper, unmarried girls from France some time ago to try and offer some civility to the brutish locals.

_But you, no, you are not one of them. You are a bastard, an orphan, daughter of the other kind of women they sent here. You are nothing to them. _

The words had once been those of others; they were now her own. At twenty-three she was already an old maid.And why not? Even the young men who had approached her at first, at the boarding house or in town, shied away when they discovered what she was.

The ones who didn't usually learned the hard way.

Maybe if Bertrand were still here, the father she never had. He'd look down at her through that bushy beard and offer some encouraging word. _I always told your mother you should have been a runner of the woods, just like me. Look at those long legs, just like a hind! Let those fools try and chase her. _

She could only wonder where the big trapper was now. Off in the woods, maybe, God only knew where. Trading pelts with the Caddo Indians for dried meat or telling one of his bawdy stories to anyone who would listen. He must have been looking up at the same full moon that floated outside her cell window.

Wherever he was, she hoped he was happy.

Lost in her thoughts of Bertrand, she hadn't noticed the tall figure among the shadows. Out of the corner she finally did see the movement, and pounced to her feet.

"It's all right. I'm not here to hurt you." The voice was kind, fatherly.

"Who are you?" She did not stand down.

He emerged into the watery stream of moonlight. The dark brown habit, high collar and close-cropped hair and beard identified him as a Capuchin priest. His smile was immediate, a bright crescent in the darkness.

"It is usually the case that I have to pray for the souls of the dead. Am I to pray for you too?"

"Father." Her voice sounded creaky, defeated. "Are you here for my last rites?"

"Not last rites." He produced a silver key from beneath his habit. "Just to talk. But I have to ask that you listen first."

The door swung open and she tried to see her vistor clearly. He was the first person she'd seen in a week, aside from the sentry that brought her bread and water. Just for a moment she thought to lunge at him, break a wrist or elbow and take away that beautiful silver key. But he was a man of God, and she hated to think of the consequences. She merely sat on her straw pallet and tried not to look at him.

"Dear child, whatever happened to your face?" He knelt beside her and reached out one hand.

She shrank back as if burned. "It's not bad. I… I lost a fight. The bastards were waiting for me." A snarl crept into her voice, and she was unashamed.

The priest didn't look away. "A fight? Whatever was a young lady like yourself doing in a fight?"

"It's what I do, Father. I've fought for a living for a long time."

An odd look came over his face, then he smiled. "There are many fighters who are servants of the Almighty. No doubt you have been told of Jeanne _la Pucelle?_"

It was her turn to look surprised. She was silent for a moment. "_Maman_ did tell me about her once. She said she was a great warrior, a woman who carried a sword and lance in the name of God."

He nodded. "Indeed she was. You know, Jeanne herself once set free the old city of Orleans? The one for which this place is named?" She gazed at him without looking away now. "My child, you are her heir, a soldier for the Lord."

"If God sees me as anything at all, Father, it's a murderess."

The snarl was unmistakable this time. Neither spoke.

Finally the Capuchin broke the silence. "What if I told you I could not only offer you a second chance, but maybe a new life? Redemption, perhaps?"

She spat. "I'd say you were either a little too optimistic or a little too crazy."

"I am neither," he answered after a pause, "although I am a man of opportunity. Would you like to hear my offer, or would you rather insult me again?"

"You're not a priest, are you?" she whispered.

"As I said, _cherie_, only an opportunist. The gallows will not wait. So I hope you will listen, and quickly." He placed the key in her hand now, and watched her steely eyes widen.

"I knew you were a fighter before I came; I heard you are among the very best. In exchange for this," he said, closing her long-fingered hand over the key, "you will come with me. You will do exactly as I tell you. You will not so much as eat a crumb unless I choose to feed you. In fact, you will be no better than the lowliest servant girl." The smile twisted into a smirk.

"Tell me again how this is to my advantage." She turned her gaze to the window. The first hint of dawn's light touched the eastern sky now. _It would not be long. _

"Ah, I thought you might ask that," he said, stroking his beard. "Cheating death is certainly part of it. But I'm also giving you a chance at a new life, freedom, even, once I have no further need for your…services." The last word came out as a low hiss.

She stood now, her rangy form almost as tall as the strange visitor's. The key she clenched tightly in one fist. She did not want to look at him, even though he had already looked upon her face and not once shuddered. Finally she nodded, almost imperceptibly.

The man who was not a priest smiled again, a radiant grin this time. "We have to hurry. I'm sure that as thick as these sentries may be, they'll catch onto my little ruse before long." He gestured to her.

"After you, sweet one."

Her trembling fingers slid the key into the lock, and the door swung wide. She hesitated, wondering if this were either a strange dream or a cruel trick. Without looking back she spoke. "Why are you doing this? What does it matter to you whether I hang or not?"

"As you so cleverly pointed out, I am not a man of God. I am, however, a man who enjoys worldly things. I also know that the foolish pride of other men can be very profitable. You are going to help me." She could not see, but his wide smile remained.

"I don't even know your real name," said the prisoner.

"You are one of the few who shall know it. Adrien Arseneault, late of Old France, adopted son of New France, and one hell of a survivor, at your service. Of course, you will be in mine. How ironic."

"Now come. I can tell you all you need to know along the way," he said, stepping past her out of the cell.

"The way where?" she insisted. "I haven't even told you my name."

"To France, my dear, the old country. A place I won't be recognized so easily. I suggest you leave your old name behind; I doubt you'll ever come back to this place anytime soon. What do you think of 'Zibeline,' sable one? I think it suits you." He smiled.

She took the next step out of her cell and into her new life.


	2. A World Apart

**Chapter 2: A World Apart (Three Months Later)**

For Gaston de Valois, life was always good, but it was at its best in late autumn. Crisp, clear mornings on horseback, warm apple or pear cobbler every day, spending the lenghthening nights telling lewd jokes and singing tavern ballads by the fire until the wee hours. And of course, it was the very best time of year for hunting.

The iron grey stallion grazed placidly in the clearing. His rider had been tracking the same buck for over an hour now. The animal's tracks led into a thick tangle of woods. So did the hunter's.

Gaston loved many things, but nothing so much as the thrill of the chase…or else a brief reflection of his devastating good looks and impressive physique. Today he had brought only his favorite longbow, a full quiver, and his own immeasurable confidence. The deerhounds (or worse yet, Lefou) would have sent the buck galloping away in a heartbeat. Today he wanted whatever challenge the forest offered, and just maybe another trophy to show off back home.

A track here, then another. Not far now.

The deer were rutting; any good hunter knew that even without seeing the score marks their antlers had made against the trees and the increased number of hoof marks. Any other man in town might have been able to bag one just through blind luck.

But Gaston was not just any man, and this was not just any buck. Only a man of his supreme talent was up to the job.

The buck's tracks showed it to be a big one. He finally sighted his quarry drinking from a stream. Even from where he stood he saw the buck's crowning glory, and he gaped despite himself. At least ten points by the looks of it, and enough good meat to last a month. Throw in a great story the other guys would tell and embellish for a while, a gorgeous trophy for the tavern, and the buck looked just about perfect. It was clearly oblivious it was being followed. Of course, ignorance was no excuse for mercy.

His steps were nearly silent as he sidled closer and closer. Years of practice had honed his tracking and stealth, and despite his big frame Gaston possessed the grace of a dancer. A broken twig or the crunch of a dried leaf would betray him. His feet sidestepped them all. Even his breath was held silently in check.

One hand reached up to the quiver on his back, drawing a single arrow. Too thrilled at the prospect of the kill even to exhale, he nocked it, then pulled the string taut. The shaft pointed directly at the buck's heart, he sighted, and…

"GASTON! Hey, Gaston, where are you?"

The arrow zinged away into the trees. With a quick pivot, the big buck bounded effortlessly away. Blue eyes blazing with fury, Gaston threw down the empty bow. _Merde! _He knew that voice; how the speaker had found him this deep in the woods he would never know. Maybe a bit of the dumb luck that seemed to be going around these days.

"Lefou, I'm a little busy right now," he said through gritted teeth.

Grace and power were nowhere to be found in the other. Lefou came crashing through the underbrush, covered in debris and gasping for breath. "I…I came to find you. I thought, um, you might need my help…" He gulped as he saw a familiar expression cross the hunter's face.

Gaston seized the smaller man by the collar and shook him like a rag doll. "I told you last night, not once, but three times, that I was going deer hunting. Alone. Not goose, not rabbit or squirrel. Get that through that thick skull of yours next time!" Furious, he tossed Lefou away. The little man landed face down in a half-congealed puddle.

Well used to Gaston's outbursts, Lefou wiped the mud from his round face and smiled idiotically. "Well, okay. Sorry about the deer, though. I bet you'll get it next time. No one could get it but you."

Nothing lifted one of Gaston's dark moods faster than flattery. He tried to suppress a grin. "Of course! Why do you think I came out here by myself?"

"Yeah, Gaston, you're the greatest hunter in the whole world."

"I know, I know." He dismissed Lefou with one gloved hand. "So what is it that's so important? I thought you hated this part of the woods."

Still muddied and covered with leaves, Lefou stood. "No kidding! Wolves, and bears, and…you know, a witch!" His knees trembled comically.

Picking up the longbow, Gaston laughed. "Still believe in those silly bedtime stories, huh? I've been out here a thousand times by myself. No witches, I guarantee." He slung it over one shoulder. "I have no idea how that story got started, anyway. Probably some stupid farmer or shepherd who got lost out here." He sounded convincing enough, but he did not laugh now.

"Well, Gaston, you know, I wanted to ask you about the party. Who are you gonna bring, anyway?" Lefou asked eagerly.

Gaston's "surprise" birthday party was hardly a surprise to him; there were few to be had in Ste.-Eulalie. The whole town had been gossiping about it for weeks now. He supposed the only surprise left was which lucky girl would get the pleasure of his company that night.

The hunter shook his head. "Plenty of girls, only one me. I guess that's the problem. They just can't measure up to perfection!"

"But it's two days away. How about one of the Beaulieus? They've been bugging me all day, trying to get me to get in a good word for them." Lefou blushed; he had always been enamored with the pretty triplets.

It was certainly a thought. They would have given anything to accompany him. But the same problem remained: choose one, and have the other two complain all night. Just a typical night at the tavern, really. Besides, there were plenty of other girls in the village, just not that one who _really_ caught his eye. And he really wanted a special evening on his birthday.

He turned back in the direction where the grey stallion waited. Lefou, ever faithful, trotted beside with the quiver. "Hey, I'm sure you'll find a girl in time. They're a sou a dozen for a guy like you."

"Right." Gaston answered without looking back. But his brows were still knitted into a frown.

Half an hour at a good pace brought the two men back to the clearing, still afire with plenty of autumn sunshine and late-season color. Tybalt, the big grey, raised his head and nickered at the sight of his master. He remained exactly where Gaston had left him. Lefou's pony mule was nowhere in sight.

"I thought you said you finished training that little nag of yours?" Gaston asked, grinning.

"Osbert! C'mere, boy!" shouted Lefou, trying to whistle and failing. "Think you could help me look?"

"You're the apprentice ostler, idiot. You find him."

"But where are you going?" Lefou sputtered.

In one fluid motion Gaston mounted his steed. "See you back in town. I've got a girl to find."

Laughing merrily, he galloped away.

The little ostler sighed. It was already a long day.

No master could have painted a more tranquil scene than the one Gaston surveyed. Ste.-Eulalie lay nestled amidst vast stretches of golden wheat and pasturelands to the east, the forest and its glorious autumn colors to the north and west. The foothills soared purple and majestic in the distance. Even from here he heard the bells of the village chapel proclaiming eleven o'clock.

He hadn't gotten the buck, true, but for just a moment it didn't seem to matter. There would be other times for hunting, but precious few days like this until spring. A troop of geese soared far overhead in a "V," hurrying toward the warmer lands to the south. Without a musket, Gaston could only watch as they flew honking by.

Below the horse and rider was an open field of sunflowers, their dark faces following the light. A warm breeze made them dance.

"What do you say, fella? You up for it?" asked Gaston, rubbing the horse's neck. The grey had not yet broken a sweat. He whinnied in anticipation.

Horse and rider thundered down the ridge into the sunflowers, golden petals and rough stalks flying everywhere. The buck may have escaped today. But there would be another day.

Tybalt drank deeply at the trough; Gaston treated himself to a ladleful of icy water from the fountain. A brisk morning had turned into a pleasantly warm afternoon, and both were now sweating freely.

The town square was alive with the daily gaggle of merchants hawking their wares, farmers, animals of all kinds, and wives doing their errands. A gangly teenage shepherd and his scruffy collie tried to keep several dozen sheep from straying. Hooves clattered, chickens clucked, a throng of children played tag and laughed. Everyone who could do so was enjoying the last, glorious warm days of the year.

"_Bonjour, _Madame Jocard! Some rosy apples for you today?"

"Ah, Monsieur, I must say that hat suits you."

"Take home some of my flowers! Make your wife happy!"

"Francoise, give me back my doll or I'll tell Papa!"

Some days the hunter found comfort in the peace and serenity of the woods. But mostly Ste.-Eulalie herself comforted him: he knew her faces, her sights and sounds, even her familiar smells so well. Things remained the same every day, and everyone knew their places. Townsfolk who passed gave him a friendly wave or "_Bonjour."_ All the young women, and many of the older ones, tried to sneak in a playful wink and a flirtatious word or two. The townsmen he acknowledged with a nod; he flashed his dazzling smile to his female admirers, usually receiving a swoon and a sigh in return. Like his father before him, Gaston stood proud and tall, a figure the village men could seek to emulate and the women could dream to marry.

_Like shooting fish in a barrel. It's almost too easy._

When the stallion had drunk his fill, Gaston led him to the livery stable just across from the tavern. His was the largest stall; the horse's name was carved upon a wooden plaque over the door. Hungrily Tybalt dropped his nose into a bucket of oats.

Gaston smiled to himself. He had hoped his new mount would stay inky black like old Apollo. As a weanling Tybalt had begun to turn iron grey. Like a thunderhead looming on the western horizon, with the speed of lightning to match. And he was only four years old, just coming into his prime. He was perfect just the way he was. Gaston rarely settled for less.

"Haven't seen Lefou around, have you?" came the gruff voice of Edouard Thierry, the ostler.

"Last time I saw him he was chasing that damned Osbert again," Gaston answered, not taking his eyes off Tybalt.

Edouard, a stout older man, shook his head. "I've had it with that boy! He's never on time, always making excuses. You better get it through his head that his job is here, not nipping at your heels like an orphaned pup."

The hunter couldn't help but grin. "He's pretty good at that." He turned to Edouard. "His father wanted him to be your apprentice, not me. It's not exactly easy for him to groom Tybalt there."

It was Edouard's turn to smile. "I always said he would've done better just being the village idiot. But seeing as they got rid of the idea, I guess I'm stuck with him. He isn't too bad when he's actually doing his job, you know," he said.

"Everybody's got to be good at something. I'm just good at everything."

"That you are. You've become quite a specimen." The ostler chuckled.

"You wouldn't have seen Lionel, have you? I'm still waiting on that new halter."

"He stopped by this morning, said to come by the shop, that he was just about done."

"I'm on my way."

It was only a short walk to the saddler's; no two places in town were very far apart. Gaston always enjoyed the appreciative glances he got from the women as he strode past, even though he hardly acknowledged them anymore. The silversmith's and glassblower's stalls gave him the perfect excuse to admire his reflection. In fact, the only merchant who never acknowledged him was the little old bookseller. _As if he counted, anyway, _smirked Gaston.

"Pity for a poor fellow, good sir?" A figure, hunched over and draped in filthy rags, reached out a hand. Beggars and vagrants were few in remote Ste.-Eulalie. Gaston had never seen this one before.

He snarled and kicked out. "Get outta here! We don't need any more garbage in the streets!" The beggar went tumbling off to the side in a crumpled heap.

_Dealing with Lefou is trouble enough, and now this? I'll have to have a word with the mayor.._

Lionel the saddler, a bundle of scrap leather in his arms, ran straight into Gaston, apparently just as preoccupied. "_Bonjour, _Gaston. I've got that halter of yours. I…ah…was just taking this to…"

"Yes?" Gaston, amused, raised an eyebrow. Probably some birthday "surprise" he wasn't supposed to know about.

"Well, ah, never mind. Come on in and I'll show you."

The saddlery shop was among Gaston's favorite places in town. He inhaled, taking in the deep, rich smell of oiled leather. Lionel fetched the halter from his workshop. It was perfect, fine black leather accented with sterling silver. A single letter "T" was stamped into the browband. "So what do you think? Is it all right?"

"Perfect," Gaston said, admiring the fine craftsmanship. "It's great." He retrieved a handful of silver coins from a leather pouch. "Keep the rest. I'll probably stop back next week; I need a new belt pretty quick."

"_Merci beaucoup."_

The bell on Lionel's door rang again as the door opened. This time it wasn't a customer. "_Bonjour, _Gaston," said the pretty visitor, a basket of flowers in her arms. "I couldn't help but notice you were here."

"Hi, Marcelle." He grinned; she sighed deeply and batted her eyes. His eyes drifted to her chest. "Nice… uh…flowers you've got there."

Her laugh was like tiny bells tinkling. "Melisande. I guess the new dress threw you off." It was lavender rather than her usual green, although it had her preferred plunging neckline. She saw his eyes linger at her cleavage. "Can I ask you something? In private?"

"Yeah. I'll see you, Lionel."

"See you at the tavern," called the saddler.

Outside, Melisande pulled Gaston into the narrow alley between buildings. Her lips met his immediately. His hands strayed to her _derriere_; she did not resist. After a moment she pulled away, giggling.

"Hey, I was just warming up," he protested with a wink.

She put a hand to her face in mock outrage. "You're so naughty. I bet you already know all about your party."

"Hard to keep a secret when everyone talks about it all day," he said.

"So…have you decided to ask me yet?" cooed Melisande.

"Well, I don't know…" As he prevaricated, Melisande couldn't help smiling at how cute Gaston was when he pretended to think hard. "What about your sisters? I know I'm irresistable, but there's plenty of me to go around."

The blonde pouted and gave him her best wide-eyed expression. "I asked you first, didn't I?"

He returned her look with a rakish smile. "If you say 'please.' Go on, ask me again. I like it when a girl begs me."

"Melisande!" A high-pitched shout shattered the mood. "Come back here and get to work!" Marcelle and Musette, her sisters, were clearly annoyed.

"Ooh, I've got to go," she said, giving him one last peck on the cheek. She picked up her basket of pansies. "Are we on?"

"Friday night." Gaston kissed her delicate hand. "I'll be sure and act surprised."

Now that that was out of the way, he could really get ready. _Off to the tailor, a quick chat with Musette and then Marcelle… and then, I could use a nap. Got to get some beauty sleep before Friday, after all._


	3. Stranger in a Strange Land

**Chapter 3: Stranger in a Strange Land**

Her pallet tonight was only a slight upgrade from her cell back in New Orleans. The hay itched all over, especially with the new woolen dress and petticoats he made her wear. The smell of manure hung stagnantly in the cool air. Ruddy light came from a pair of dying torches on the far wall. Her right wrist was shackled to a heavy iron cistern. In that respect, the cell had been much better.

The shackles were new, and her wrists were already raw. Adrien hadn't taken any chances since her aborted escape attempt a week ago. He hardly let her out of his sight anymore. _You like freedom, sable one? Do you?_

Freedom had been only too brief. He'd found out, somehow, caught up to her like a hound on the trail of fresh blood. _How did he always know?_ But he had known, and when he'd caught her, he'd shackled her right away, then threw her into the dark, tight confines of a coal bin. She'd screamed and sobbed for at least an hour before he came back for her. After that, escape had barely crossed her mind.

When Adrien did leave her by herself, she was left safely hidden in a stable, sometimes with a few drowsy horses or mules. Tonight was one of those rare occasions for solitude. The barn was empty, but the stench of its former inhabitants remained. She didn't want to sleep. The dreams came then, and whatever waking nightmares she faced were only half as terrifying.

The only thing left to do was to simply sit and think.

Outside, she knew the moon was nearly full, which meant she had spent almost two months in Old France _(strange, how she called it that.) _ No two nights had been spent in the same place since the port city of Bordeaux, so her impression of her new home was a fragmented one. By day she sat, hands tied, in the back of the wagon, watching the scenery change from marshlands to autumn forests or open fields. Some things never changed: the men she had seen so far were by and large the same lowlifes as back home. So were the ones she had beaten already.

Every night it was the same: at a local tavern or meeting hall, he'd brag that she, hardly more than a girl, could beat any challenger in a fair fight. When they had finished laughing, Adrien set the odds and bets were placed. Then she fought like a demon against any strapping blacksmith, farmer's son or miller foolish enough to take her on. They never laughed in the end.

She'd long since recovered from the beating inflicted on her back in New Orleans. In fact, she'd never felt stronger. Adrien was no healer, but the Basque bosun on the ship that brought them here was. He'd set her dislocated shoulder properly, and given her a root to chew on both for seasickness and the pain of her sore ribs. He was also the only man who had ever held his own against her in a fight. Adrien had insisted she train with "the Basque," whose name she'd not learned. A lean, cagy veteran, he had worked her hard each day. He'd taught her some new moves, and some of his own strange language. She'd gradually come to trust him.

He hadn't, of course, been able to do anything for her face.

With her unshackled left hand she reached up. Her heart sank every time she caught a glimpse of herself. The wounds had healed into a jagged maze of scars and ridges, rough like oak bark. The scum who'd attacked her had made it so she'd never be beautiful again.

_"Not so pretty anymore, is she?"_

_"Even the lepers won't want to do her."_

_"'S what she gets for killing Garamond and Talbert, the bitch."_

Two months later, and she could still hear their taunts as if it were yesterday.

She had taken to wearing an indigo cloth as a mask, so that only her lips and lower jaw were visible. Adrien called her "Bandit" now nearly as often as he called her "Sable." Her old name was already a distant memory.

The barn door creaked, and Sable sat up instinctively. No one else knew she was here.

"Come on, pretty thing, have you not slept? We've got an early start this morning."

His voice sent a shiver through her. He would not dare lay a hand on her; he was no fighter. But some things were much worse than pain. He could put her back in the coal bin.

Sable's eyes fell upon her captor's belt. It jingled as he walked, his pouch full of silver and gold. "A good take, as always. _Tres magnifique."_ He smiled. "Are you not tired?"

She was exhausted and sore, but would not give him the satisfaction of knowing it. "Mostly hungry. Did you bring anything?" she asked.

"Did I bring anything?"

She swallowed hard. "Did you bring anything for me, _Monsieur?_" The last word was poison in her mouth.

"That's a good girl." He tossed her a hunk of dark bread. "Still warm, that."

The bread was delicious; she wolfed it down, wishing there were more. "Where are we off to today?" she asked him.

"If I told you that, it wouldn't be a surprise, would it? Here, have some milk. You have to keep up your strength," he added, producing a skin. As she gulped down her breakfast, Adrien took a seat on a three-legged stool. "Now, before you and I leave this morning, I think you should tell the rules again. I feed and clothe you, I look after you, so is it so hard for you to obey just a couple of rules?"

Sable glared at him with purest hatred. "I already know them," she muttered.

With a quick swing, he knocked the milk skin out of her hands. "Indulge me, won't you? Or do you want another hour in that coal bin?"

Keeping her eyes lowered, she spoke in a monotone. "I am to obey you and not question your orders. I will not try and escape. I'll only speak when spoken to. I am never to attack anyone except my opponent."

"And?"

"And I'm not to fight dirty," she added.

"That's the most important one. It makes me look like a cheat. Tonight I didn't think I'd be able to collect!"

Her smile was grim; she smiled so rarely now. "I don't think that Gerard will be a father any time soon."

"Indeed," said Adrien, not laughing. "I'm going to take that shackle off now. Are we going to do this the easy way, or do you want to be punished?" His eyes gleamed unpleasantly in the torchlight.

She'd already decided. "_Monsieur, _please remove it."

He did so; the shackle fell loose and Sable rubbed her wrist gratefully. "Now ready the wagon and our supplies. I've something I must attend to. We leave before sunrise."

"Why before sunrise?"

Adrien smiled his most dangerous smile. "I don't want some poor milkmaid coming here and finding you. She'd probably die of fright."

They were well to the southwest of Lestrelle by sunrise. He always planned it that way, if only to avoid the losing fighter from the night before and the bettors who were much lighter in their wallets. If he ever had a destination in mind, her master never told her. It would not have mattered, anyway: she was as out of sorts here as if she'd been on the moon. He had been born and raised here. Here and there she caught some unfamiliar place name from a passing traveler or a signpost. The only constancy was the rattling of the wagon over rutted roads and the brisk, swirling wind from the west.

Shivering, Sable pulled her cloak tighter around her. In all her years in Nouvelle-Orleans she had never needed woolen clothing, much less a cloak. Summer here was long since over. There were no mosquitoes that she could tell, though; that was certainly a small blessing.

Normally talkative as a magpie, Adrien was strangely silent during the long days on the road. _Was he afraid of being recognized?_ Perhaps, she thought, although they never spent two consecutive days in one town and left early each day. Maybe a guilty conscience. In almost four months knowing him, though, Sable had yet to see anything that would break his resolve.

They took a rest at midday next to a stone bridge over a creek. The sturdy cob was unhitched and allowed to drink and graze in the meadow. Lunch was more of the dark bread and goat's milk for her. Adrien pulled out cheese, a pear, and a flask of red wine. For a few minutes they sat in silence, then she spoke.

"Why did you bring me here?"

He bit into his pear. He must have been in a good mood, for he did not ask to be addressed properly. "It's a mutually beneficial situation. You provide me with a good stream of income; and I save you from certain death."

His voice did not have its usual jocular tone, which meant he was not being entirely truthful. She pressed him. "_Monsieur, _may I ask what your life was like in New France? Before you found me?" A little agreeability on her part couldn't hurt.

Adrien had told her little about himself in four months. He was, as he had said at the outset, one hell of a survivor. He was also a master of disguise: his repertoire included the Capuchin priest, a Norman fisherman, and a forgotten noble from some obscure Burgundy family. He'd not once been recognized here for all his supposed notoriety. She saw how his lean face furrowed in thought as he pondered the question.

"It was much as it is now, sweet bandit. Traveling from town to town, never claiming any of them as my home, making a living from the recklessness of foolish men." He paused to sip at the last of the wine. "Strangely curious today, aren't we?"

She hung her head. "No, I'm only curious about the past. I know so little of my own."

He gave her one of his enigmatic half-smiles. In this situation he could be hard to read. "The past is behind us now. I suggest you concentrate on the future," he said, gesturing to the sun. "Time waits for no one. We still have far to go, sable one."

"Where?"

His green eyes were hard. "If you ask me that again, I will not be so kind. Now, fill those water skins and hitch the horse."

The next few hours positively crawled by. Her master remained aloof and silent, not even once turning to look at her. The road had gotten progressively worse, forcing them to proceed at a slow walk. Late afternoon became humid and the wind picked up; with her sharp hearing, Sable thought she heard distant thunder to the west. Rolling farmlands had given way to the beginnings of mountains, the first high ground she had ever seen. There were no mosquitoes, but the gnats turned out to be much worse. With her hands bound, she simply gave up resisting after the first hour and tried to drift into a dreamless sleep.

Not many other travelers passed the wagon. Mostly they were going the other way, back toward Lestrelle. In and out of sleep, she was able to hear Adrien conversing with a tinker, who muttered something in his rough dialect about a haunted forest. _As long as there are no gators, I feel safe enough. _She rolled over and went back to sleep.

It was only the first splash of rain on her face that woke her. Darkness had settled in, and she realized with some surprise that she had actually slept for an hour or two. The sound of thunder was low and menacing now, and close at hand. The smell of a storm was all around. "What happened? Where are we?" she mumbled, rubbing her eyes and trying in vain to get her bearings. Raindrops fell harder now, tattooing them both.

"Quiet! Get that satchel; there's something in it I need," snapped Adrien.

A deafening clap of thunder drowned him out. The old horse shied in its traces, whinnying in terror. Now the heavens opened wide and sheets of rain cascaded down.

"Here," she shouted, already drenched in the downpour. They were swallowed in a sea of darkness, their lanterns the only islands of light. If Adrien knew where he was, he did not say. He hunched over a tattered parchment and his compass.

"We aren't far. If I am correct…" But he did not finish. Lightning zigzagged down and struck a lone pine tree. _Crash! _ Panicking, the horse was off, galloping blindly along the rutted road.

Adrien made no attempt to slow the wagon. They thundered through the gloom, every hole in the road sending a jolt of fresh pain through her tired body. Sable grasped the side tightly and tried to hang on. She was only aware of the ferocity of the storm and wind as they assaulted her from all sides.

Without warning the wagon swayed violently. The cob let out a shrill neigh as it collapsed, its right front leg caught in a hole full of muddy water. Adrien pulled in the reins quickly; Sable closed her eyes, expecting to go flying into the night. In the end they simply lurched to an abrupt halt.

"_Mon Dieu!_" For a moment she kept her eyes closed, cursing under her breath. When she opened them, she remained safely in the back of the wagon. "What happened?" she called over the roar of the rain.

Adrien had climbed down and was examining the fallen horse. It lay on its side, sides moving in and out like bellows. "If we can get him up, he will be fine. He took a bad step."

His servant joined him on the ground, her cloak forgotten. "A livery? He'll need help."

He nodded. The rain had dampened his spirits as much as hers. "Take his bridle, sable one. I'll push from behind."

After a considerable effort, the horse was on its feet again. The worst of the downpour seemed to be over, but they stood with a lame horse and a loaded wagon in the middle of a field of sunflowers. Their food and supplies were soaked, and both lanterns had gone out.

"Wait, do you hear that?"

"Your young ears are far better than mine."

She did hear something over the receding storm; something familiar. It reminded her of…

"Church bells?" She took a tentative step. The sound was unmistakable even in the gloom. "Yes, I do hear them! This way!"

"Take the reins."

Half an hour later they emerged, drenched to the bone, in the square of a village. She had a hard time reading, but thought she had seen "Ste.-Eulalie" in peeling paint on a sign at the outskirts of town. It might have said "China" for all she knew or cared at the moment. The town was simply a place to rest.

The horse was limping with the heavy wagon behind. "Have you seen a stable yet?" asked Adrien impatiently.

"Try the tavern." She pointed to a hanging sign, her hands still tied. "Someone there will know."

"You know what to do, _ma cherie_. Stay hidden until I come back." He disappeared into the bustling tavern.

It seemed impossible with the horse and wagon, but she did not see a soul. Everyone in town was wisely indoors, enjoying a blazing fire and the pleasant warmth of ale, brandy or whiskey. With a hint of remorse, Sable tried to remember the taste of rum, her favorite. Like so many other things, it was nearly forgotten now.

Her master was quick to return. "You were quite right. Stables are just across the way. The man we need is Edouard Thierry."

Once inside, she surveyed what would probably be her home for the next few days. It did not smell of pigs or wet dogs, only grain and oiled leather. This was a well-run, hospitable place. Maybe she would not have to fight off the mice for a change.

"Good Lord, are you all right?" The ostler, seeing his visitors, dropped a set of horseshoes in surprise. "Your horse is lame."

"I have seen better nights." Adrien was smooth as always. He removed his sodden cloak. "I'll be needing a stall and board to let my horse rest. He met with an unfortunate accident on the road."

Edouard nodded. "That I have, monsieur. Lefou!" He snapped. "Sweet Mother, where is that boy? Never around when I need him."

Sable stood in the shadows, her cowl still covering her face. "Your daughter?" asked Edouard as he began to unhitch the injured, shivering cob.

"My maidservant," Adrien was quick to reply. "We'll also be needing a place for ourselves. Is there any good lodging to be had?"

"The best. Several rooms over at the tavern; they'll even throw in a croissant or two and tea in the morning. Ask for Matthieu Navarre." He stopped for a moment. "Monsieur, I don't wish to be impolite, but I take it you're from a ways away. Orleans, maybe?"

"Near Paris," said Adrien. "Originally. Nor do I wish to be rude, but we've had somewhat of an ordeal and we'd like to rest."

"I see. Your horse will be well taken care of. _Bonsoir, _and I'll see you tomorrow."

Adrien flipped him a silver coin. "And a good night to you."

Outside, the rain had dissipated, leaving a light mist in its wake. Sable had nearly forgotten her dress was soaked. All their supplies were in the wagon, and nothing dry remained. She only hoped she could sit by a fire for a little while tonight.

The tavern was still full of townsmen even at this late hour. She glanced around. No establishment in Nouvelle-Orleans was anything like this place. All manner of hunting trophies and antlers decorated the walls, many types of which were strange to her eyes. The floors were knotted pine rather than simple packed dirt. Some familiar smells were there: the bitter aroma of ale, cedary sawdust, and the stink of unwashed farmers, blacksmiths and laborers enjoying themselves after a hard day's work. She shuffled along behind her master, trying to hide her bound hands in the folds of her cloak. But no one so much as looked up from their drinking.

"Evening, Monsieur. What'll it be tonight?" The man behind the bar, whom they guessed must be Matthieu, spoke up. He was a middle-aged, friendly type with sandy hair rapidly going grey and a paunch visible beneath his leather apron.

"A room for tonight, maybe longer." Another silver coin appeared out of nowhere.

The tavern keeper retrieved a key. "Up the stairs, second on the left. You're soaked, Monsieur! Perhaps you'd like a fire. I'll have one of my nieces get one going. Musette!" He called to a pretty blonde who stood filling a tankard. "Stoke the fire in room three. Will you be needing any spirits, then?"

"Perhaps later," answered Adrien. He shepherded Sable quickly away.

A short while later, the fire in her room was roaring. Yawning, Sable peeled off her wet outer garments down to her slip, grateful to be in a warm, dry place at last. She kept the cloth tightly wound around her face.

Adrien entered the room holding a single candle. He too had removed his wet things, but had borrowed a dry shirt and pants from the tavern keeper. "You're not decent, you know," he said softly.

"I'm not a lot of things." She looked away and thrust her shackled hands toward the fire.

"Seeing as we'll be here a few days, and since you've been such a good girl," said her master, "I've decided you can stay in this room tonight. Don't get too comfortable, though, sable one. Tomorrow it'll be the stables again."

She was too tired to speak up or argue with him. "What about you?" she yawned.

"I'll be around, don't you worry. Sleep well," he said, and was gone.

Hardly believing her good fortune, she sat on the bed. It was well-worn, but soft and inviting. Anything but a straw pallet or hammock was foreign to her. Like a cat, she stretched and curled into a ball. Sleep came instantly, and she did not relive her torment that night.


	4. A Most Peculiar Mademoiselle

**Chapter 4: A Most Peculiar Mademoiselle**

When she woke, Sable dimly wondered why there was no hay. Then the memories of last night's wild ride came to her, and she remembered. She had no idea what time it was; no windows meant no sunlight. The fire had smoldered into a cold heap of ashes. Even under the blankets she was freezing; then she realized she only wore her slip, and she was far from balmy New France.

The shackles were gone, too. Had he removed them during the night?

Her pink dress was nowhere to be found. Maybe Adrien had taken it to be cleaned. In its place were a creamy linen blouse, grey bodice and homespun forest green skirt draped over a chair. He had the good sense to leave her favorite soft leather boots, now dried out. _If I can't have my buckskins, this is a little more practical than that damned pink, _she thought as she began to dress. The new clothes were a little loose, but otherwise comfortable.

She realized what was out of place. Along with the dress, her cloak was gone. Without it she felt naked. She couldn't go wandering around with only the mask; it drew too many questions.

Sable was aware that she was alone, unbound, and her master was nowhere in sight. It was an unfamiliar feeling. The thought of escape danced across her mind. But she was without anything but the clothes on her back, no horse and wagon, and stranded in a strange place. The idea swam away as quickly as a startled fish in a pond.

Edouard Thierry had been good to his word; a fresh-baked croissant and a teapot awaited her on the floor as she tentatively opened the door. Having not eaten since lunch yesterday, she was ravenous. She chased her breakfast with two cups of hot tea.

Emboldened with the thought of freedom, she decided to explore her new surroundings. She took one of the blankets as a makeshift cloak, threw it around her head, and stepped outside.

The tavern was silent as a monastery at this early hour. She tiptoed down the hall. Four other rooms lined the corridor; maybe Adrien had slept in one of them. No trophies were to be found on the walls here, only several moth-eaten tapestries and a pair of portraits, a man and a woman. She stared at them for a moment. The man was handsome, with an angular face and a smug expression. He held the reins of a fierce-looking black horse. The other portrait depicted a seated woman hardly older than herself. She had kind brown eyes and cinnamon hair; her hands were demurely crossed on her lap.

_Someone's mother. _She felt the tears suddenly welling. _Maman_ was gone but the pain lingered. The only person whom she knew anymore was mercurial and cruel.

But Adrien was nowhere to be seen at the moment. He hadn't warned her against going out, so she decided to chance it.

Downstairs, pale sunlight streamed through the windows into the barroom. A dray was parked outside, from which two young men unloaded kegs of ale. Neither Matthieu Navarre, his nieces, or anyone else was around. She decided to head to the stables and see how the cob was doing. _At least I'll have some privacy there_.

Judging by the position of the sun, it was already mid-morning. Had she really slept that long? She wondered. But she felt rejuvenated, and her soreness had already begun to ebb. A brisk wind gusted, and she remembered it was late fall here. Maybe the blanket would not be so conspicuous after all.

Normally at this time of day she'd be sitting in the wagon, watching the clouds as the scenery lazily rolled by. Today was different. She allowed herself to take in the sights and sounds of the village.

She seemed to be right in the town square. A fountain flowed in its midst. A pair of older women chattered and did laundry while a boy led a donkey laden with chicken cages past. At every shopfront and street corner, a vendor sold fresh fruit or eggs, candles or shoes. She caught a whiff of something delicious from the bakery. Maybe she'd try and get another of those croissants.

"Mademoiselle, you look a bit lost. Anything I can do to help?" It was one of the young draymen, a wiry redhead.

Speaking to strangers was something her master frowned upon. She uttered a few words in Basque that the ship's mate had taught her.

"Sorry, didn't catch that?"

Sable mimed a horse and rider, then shrugged her shoulders questioningly. She kept her eyes safely downward.

"The stables?" She nodded. "Right across the way."

Safely away, she was grateful no one else tried to start a conversation. These types always gossiped, and a newcomer was good fodder for discussion. She opened the barn door and peered inside. Once again, she was alone with only the pleasant and familiar scents of horses and harness.

"_Ouille! _Son of a…" The noise was sudden and followed by the heavy clank of a dropped bucket. She melted into the shadows and waited for the speaker to come into view.

His long shadow was much taller than he was. Sable repressed the sudden urge to laugh at the sight of him. He cut a strange figure, hardly taller than a young boy, dressed in mismatched clothes much too big for him. In each hand he held a bucket of feed; he'd clearly dropped a third.

"Damn you, Lefou, pick that up!" She remembered Edouard's gruff baritone from the previous night. "No more fooling around!"

"Sorry, boss," muttered the unfortunate Lefou, kneeling to scoop up the grain with his hands.

For once, here was someone even more downtrodden than her. Her wry smile had turned into an expression of pity. She felt suddenly compelled to speak, and emerged from her hiding place.

"I'm trying, I'm trying…" he fumbled, clearly expecting a beating or worse as her shadow fell across him. Then he looked up. "Who…who are you?"

She knelt and began to gather some of the grain in her skirt. "I'm Sable," she said.

"Never seen you around here," replied Lefou.

"That's because I'm not from this place. I came to check on our horse."

"Oh." He sighed in relief. "That bay? He's all right, I think. I wrapped his leg and gave him some hot mash this morning."

"You did?" The old horse was in the last stall on the right; he stood gingerly with his front leg bandaged. "Thanks," she said with a smile.

It was not a word Lefou was used to hearing. He studied his shoes and blushed. "It was nothing, really. Just my job."

"You wouldn't have run into a Monsieur Arseneault this morning, would you? Tall, dark hair, a goatee?"

The young man chuckled. "Sounds a little like Gaston, only with a goatee."

"Gaston?"

"You're really not from around Ste.-Eulalie, are you?"

_So that was the name of this village. _"That's what they tell me." She sighed.

There were so many questions she wanted to ask him, but he spoke first.

"Your accent's kind of weird. Where did you say you were from, anyway?"

_Why were these people always asking that?_ She spat out Adrien's all-purpose response. "I've traveled my whole life. We never stay in one place very long." At least for the last few months, it had been the truth. A pang of homesickness washed over her.

"What brings you here? We're kind of off the main road." He sat on a bale of hay, his chin cupped under his hands. Evidently he was just as curious about her.

"Our horse broke down last night. We were on the way to…" Adrien had never told her, so she was forced to improvise. "Toulouse," she quickly managed. It was one of the only place names he had mentioned.

"Wow," breathed Lefou. "I've never been more than a couple villages away, and to the horse fair every year. Gaston has, though. He likes to tell stories about some of the places he's been. But he always says this is his home."

She smiled at his enthusiasm. "I guess I've got to ask: just who is this Gaston?"

Words came gushing from the other like water from a burst dam. "He's the best! He's a hunter, a really great shot, everybody in town loves him. He's a great fighter, too…"

Sable's ears only heard the last words as Lefou babbled on and on about his hero. _Gaston, whomever he was, was probably her next opponent._

"So why do you have that scarf thing on, anyway?" She snapped her head up. Curiosity had gotten the better of him, after all.

"It's…complicated. I can't tell you."

"What's under there? Can you take it off?"

"No!" He cowered at her sudden outburst.

Neither one spoke for a moment. She hadn't expected her temper to be so sudden and fierce. _Maybe this Gaston has a bit of a temper, too._

"I…I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that," she said. "Like I said, it's complicated. I really don't know who I can trust."

"It's okay," answered Lefou, not too convincingly. "If I see this friend of yours, I'll try and let you know. I gotta get back to work, though. I guess I'll see you around?"

She did not think to correct him about Adrien. "Maybe. I'm not sure when we'll be leaving." It was the truth. "Thanks again for taking good care of the horse."

"No problem, Miss Sable."

"Who did you say she is, Lefou?" asked Gaston for the third time.

"Dunno. Some kind of traveler. She really didn't say, but mentioned something about Toulouse," offered Lefou.

The de Valois family chalet at the outskirts of town was beginning to fall into disrepair, but was still as warm and inviting as the tavern. Gaston stood before his full-length mirror, holding up two different dress coats and trying to decide. Lefou had made a beeline there as soon as his work at the stables was done, and the hunter had immediately peppered him with questions. He hadn't known most of the answers, but he had been able to offer some advice on an outfit for the party.

"I heard some of the guys talking about her at the blacksmith's. Tanguy swears she's a gypsy, but old Valentin made her out to be a Basque. Who does she think she is, anyway? This is supposed to be _my _day!" he spat, throwing one of the coats aside in disgust.

Lefou sighed and picked up the coat. "I actually liked this one better."

"Too right. Why was I thinking gold instead of red?"

"She mentioned a guy called Monsieur Arseneault. I never met anyone with that name."

Gaston scowled, trying to think. "Nah, doesn't ring a bell. Besides, no one in town's ever seen her before. What's she look like?"

"Couldn't tell that either, really. Kinda dark brown hair, I think She had some kind of wrap on…" Trying to change the subject, his friend picked up a pair of boots from the floor. "I bet these would look great with that red coat."

"Of course. Give me those," ordered Gaston. " 'Sable.' Strange name for a girl. Now, more importantly, how do _I_ look?"

The question seemed redundant. Gaston always cut a stunning figure, and was especially dashing tonight in his favorite tailcoat, vest and pants. The black boots completed the look. Lefou favored him with two thumbs up, and smiled idiotically. "Looks really good," he said.

"I know." Gaston basked for a moment in the praise. "Now get on back. I'm sure you've got something to take care of. I promise I'll pretend to be surprised," he said.

The ostler's apprentice trotted obediently out the door, back to town.

Gaston picked up his comb and absently ran it once more through his glossy black hair. The chalet seemed eerily quiet now that he was alone again. But that was more often than not these days. He'd been on his own since just before his sixteenth birthday. Five years later and he was still a bachelor.

_It won't always be like this, _he thought, surveying his disheveled home. _Once I find the perfect little wife, there'll be someone to handle the dishes, and the cooking, and the sewing and cleaning. And not long afterwards, the sound of little feet on the floor. A man could get used to that. Not to mention a nice foot massage every night…_

One more glance in the mirror at perfection, and he was satisfied. He blew out the oil lamp on the dresser and headed out.


End file.
